Jabber, Jabber
by NutsandVolts
Summary: ONESHOT: What if Beetee had been with Finnick and Katniss when the jabberjays attacked in the arena? Who would he have heard? How would he have been affected? When speculation becomes a fanfic. Katniss's POV, and slightly AU, of course.


**DISCLAIMER: I don't own **_**Catching Fire**_** or any characters within it.**

**Beetee is always so in control of his emotions in the trilogy, so it's fun to speculate what would happen if he suddenly snapped for wha****tever reason. The jabberjay attack and voices of his loved ones—whoever they may be—would surely make even Beetee stop thinking rationally. As I said, this is basically speculation that blossomed into a fic. :) It aligns almost perfectly with **_**Catching Fire**_**and is in Katniss's POV. Enjoy! **

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**

* * *

*The Arena for the Third Quarter Quell*

We randomly choose a path and take it, having no idea what number we're headed for. When we reach the jungle, we peer into it, trying to decipher what may be waiting inside.

"Well, it must be monkey hour. And I don't see any of them in there," says Peeta. "I'm going to try to tap a tree."

"No, it's my turn," says Finnick.

"I'll at least watch your back," Peeta says.

"Katniss can do that," says Johanna. "We need you to make another map. The other washed away." She yanks a large leaf off a tree and hands it to him before casting her wide-set eyes on Beetee, who has let go of his stabling hold of Finnick's waist and is now leaning against a tree. "What about you, Volts?"

He pauses to think, then casts his gaze to Finnick. "Mind if I join you?"

For a moment, I'm suspicious they're trying to divide and kill us. But it doesn't make sense. I'll have the advantage on Finnick if he's dealing with the tree, I could take Beetee out with remarkable ease in his weakened state—or, frankly, even if he was well—and Peeta's much bigger than Johanna. So I follow Finnick as he wraps an arm around Beetee and supports him as the two travel about fifteen yards into the jungle, where Finnick finds a good tree and starts stabbing to make a hole with his knife.

As I stand there, weapons ready, I can't lose the uneasy feeling that something is going on and that it has to do with Peeta. I retrace our steps, starting from the moment the gong rang out, searching for the source of my discomfort. Finnick towing Peeta in off his metal plate. Finnick reviving Peeta after the force field stopped his heart. Mags running into the fog so that Finnick could carry Peeta. The morphling hurling herself in front of him to block the monkey's attack. The fight with the Careers was so quick, but didn't Finnick block Brutus's spear from hitting Peeta even though it meant taking Enobaria's knife in his leg? And even now Johanna has him drawing a map on a leaf rather than risking the jungle…

There is no question about it. For reasons completely unfathomable to me, some of the other victors are trying to keep him alive, even if it means sacrificing themselves.

I'm dumbfounded. For one thing, that's my job. For another, it doesn't make sense. Only one of us can get out. So why have they chosen Peeta to protect? What has Haymitch possibly said to them, what has he bargained with to make them put Peeta's life above their own?

I know my own reasons for keeping Peeta alive. He's my friend, and this is my way to defy the Capitol, to subvert its terrible Games. But if I had no real ties to him, what would make me want to save him, to choose him over myself? Certainly he is brave, but we have all been brave enough to survive a Games. There is that quality of goodness that's hard to overlook, but still…and then I think of it, what Peeta can do so much better than the rest of us. He can use words. He obliterated the rest of the field at both interviews. And maybe it's because of that underlying goodness that he can move a crowd—no, a country—to his side with the turn of a simple sentence.

I remember thinking that was the gift the leader of our revolution should have. Has Haymitch convinced the others of this? That Peeta's tongue would have far greater power against the Capitol than any physical strength the rest of us could claim? I don't know. It still seems like a really long leap for some of the tributes. I mean, we're talking about Johanna Mason here. But what other explanation can there be for their decided efforts to keep him alive?

"Katniss, got that spile?" Finnick asks, snapping me back to reality. I cut the vine that ties the spile to my belt and hold the metal tube out to him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beetee resting his palm against the bark with a murmur of something that sounds like "Truly remarkable" under his breath. Only he could find something awe-inspiring about the arena, and that makes me crack a small grin.

That's when I hear the scream. So full of fear and pain it ices my blood. And so familiar. I drop the spile, forget where I am or what lies ahead, only know I must reach her, protect her. I run wildly in the direction of the voice, heedless of danger, ripping through vines and branches, through anything that keeps me from reaching her.

From reaching my little sister.

_Where is she? What are they doing to her?_ "Prim!" I cry out. "Prim!" Only another agonized scream answers me. _How did she get here? Why is she part of the Games?_ "Prim!"

Vines cut into my face and arms, creepers grab my feet. But I am getting closer to her. Closer. Very close now. Sweat pours down my face, stinging the healing acid wounds. I pant, trying to get some use out of the warm, moist air that seems empty of oxygen. Prim makes a sound—such a lost, irretrievable sound—that I can't even imagine what they have done to evoke it.

"Prim!" I rip through a wall of green into a small clearing and the sound repeats directly above me. Above me? My head whips back. Do they have her up in the trees? I desperately search the branches but see nothing. "Prim?" I say pleadingly. I hear her but can't see her. Her next wail rings out, clear as a bell, and there's no mistaking the source. It's coming from the mouth of a small, crested black bird perched on a branch about ten feet over my head. And then I understand.

It's a jabberjay.

I've never seen one before—I thought they no longer existed—and for a moment, as I lean against the trunk of the tree, clutching the stitch in my side, I examine it. The muttation, the forerunner, the father. I pull up a mental image of a mockingbird, fuse it with the jabberjay, and yes, I can see how they mated to make my mockingjay. There is nothing about the bird that suggests it's a mutt. Nothing except the horribly lifelike sounds of Prim's voice streaming from its mouth. I silence it with an arrow in its throat. The bird falls to the ground. I remove my arrow and wring its neck for good measure. Then I hurl the revolting thing into the jungle. No degree of hunger would ever tempt me to eat it.

_It wasn't real_, I tell myself. _The same way the muttation wolves last year weren't really the dead tributes. It's just a sadistic trick of the Gamemakers._

Finnick crashes into the clearing with a breathless, stumbling Beetee in tow to find me wiping my arrow clean with some moss. "Katniss?" says Finnick.

Beetee adds, "We heard—"

"It's okay," I interrupt so that I don't have to hear it. "I'm okay." It's a lie—I don't feel okay at all. "I thought I heard my sister but—" The piercing shriek cuts me off. It's another voice, not Prim's, maybe a young woman's. I don't recognize it. But the effect on Finnick is instantaneous. The color vanishes from his face and I can actually see his pupils dilate in fear. "Finnick, wait!" I say, reaching out to reassure him, but he's bolted away. Gone off in pursuit of the victim, as mindlessly as I pursued Prim. "Finnick!" I call, but I know he won't turn back and wait for me to give a rational explanation. So all I can do is follow him. And then I remember Beetee, now staring after Finnick with bleak eyes.

For a cruel moment, I consider just leaving him—why did he come, anyway?—but it quickly passes and I turn my back, squatting slightly. "Get on," I say.

Despite the obvious need to help Finnick, Beetee stammers, "I'm not sure that's appropriate, Katniss—"

"Get. On." I have no patience for whatever he finds inappropriate, and he must sense this because I feel him slink onto me, winding his thin arms around my neck and his legs around my waist. Though I knew he was small, I'm still a bit taken aback at just how light he is. He can't be much heavier than Mags. Thinking of Mags instantly returns my mind to the task at hand, and I dart off after Finnick.

It's no effort to track him, even though he's moving so fast, since he leaves a clear, trampled path in his wake. But the bird is at least a quarter mile away, most of it uphill, and with Beetee on my back, I'm weighed down a good bit. I'm winded before I'm even halfway there. After a moment, something else catches my attention. Another voice, added to Finnick's victim's. This woman is older, and her voice is slightly familiar, but I can't place it. I'm about to ask Beetee if he recognizes it, but when I feel him slide to the ground, on his knees, the look on his face affirms that he knows all too well. Behind his glasses, I can see his eyes, crazed and hopeless, and I'm worried that he may take off the same way Finnick did. Surely he would end up hurting himself further, and if Johanna were to catch wind of a handicap in our group, I'm sure she would eliminate it—meaning _him_. So when Beetee shakily stands, eyes wide, prepared to cry out and chase, I spring at him from behind and wind my arms around his chest. I easily force him to his knees again, as he's not strong, but he fights me wildly, fueled by desperation. I clap both hands over his mouth, kneel, and hiss, "It's a jabberjay!"

Behind my hands, he mumbles something that sounds like a repetition of the foul bird's name. It must dawn on him then, because he goes limp. I release him, turn, and feel him climb on my back again. Then I take off once more into the trees. I'm still running uphill, which is a struggle, but neither woman's voice has ceased, and soon, Finnick comes into view. He's circling around a giant tree. The trunk must be four feet in diameter and the limbs don't even begin until twenty feet up. The woman's shrieks emanate from somewhere in the foliage, but the jabberjay's concealed. Finnick's screaming as well, over and over. "Annie! Annie!" He's in a state of panic and completely unreachable, so I do what I would do anyway. Dropping Beetee, I scale an adjacent tree, locate the jabberjay, and take it out with an arrow. Its partner still screeches, and when I silence that one as well, the muggy air becomes silent. Both fall straight down, landing right at Finnick's feet. He picks one up, slowly making the connection, but when I slide down to join him, he looks more despairing than ever.

Beetee's patting his arm, but he looks pretty white himself. "Relax, Finnick…only a trick."

"It's all right, Finnick," I reiterate. "It's just a jabberjay. They're playing a trick on us. It's not real. It's not your…Annie."

"No, it's not Annie. But the voice was hers. Jabberjays mimic what they hear. Where did they get those screams, Katniss?" he says.

I can feel my own cheeks grow pale as I understand his meaning. "Oh, Finnick, you don't think they…"

"Yes. I do. That's exactly what I think," he says.

I have an image of Prim in a white room, strapped to a table, while masked, robed figures elicit those sounds from her. Somewhere they are torturing her, or did torture her, to get those sounds. My knees turn to water and I sink to the ground. Beetee lays the hand previously on Finnick's arm on my shoulder. "Katniss, be rational," he tells me, glancing at Finnick. I try to block him out, my ears ringing. How can I possibly be rational at a time like this, when the Capitol is harming my only sister—_and who knows who else? _"It's a trick," Beetee insists. "Just a tr—"

Another scream cuts him off. Not a woman, but a child. A young child. A little boy. Maybe four or five, six at the very oldest. Whoever it is, it makes Beetee throw rationality out the window; he bellows, "No!" before he takes off in the direction of the voice at a speed no sane injured man should be able to move.

Finnick is in front of me now, trying to tell me something, but I can't hear him or Beetee's footsteps or his young victim. What I do finally hear is another bird starting up somewhere off to my left. And this time, the voice is Gale's.

Before I can run, Finnick catches my arm. "No. It's not him." He starts pulling me downhill, toward the beach, where I think Beetee sprinted off to. "We're getting Volts and then getting out of here!" But Gale's voice is so full of pain I can't help struggling to reach it. "It's not him, Katniss! It's a mutt!" Finnick shouts at me. "Come on!" He moves me along, half dragging, half carrying me, until I can process what he said. He's right, it's just another jabberjay. I can't help Gale by chasing it down. But that doesn't change the fact that it is Gale's voice, and somewhere, sometime, someone has made him sound like this.

I stop fighting Finnick, though, and like the night in the fog, I flee what I can't fight. What can only do me harm. Only this time it's my heart and not my body that's disintegrating. This must be another weapon of the clock. Four o'clock, I guess. When the hands tick-tock onto the four, the monkeys go home and the jabberjays come out to play. Finnick is right—getting out of here is the only thing to do. Although there will be nothing Haymitch can send in a parachute that will help either Finnick or Beetee or me recover from the wounds the birds have inflicted.

Finnick finds Beetee soon enough and grasps him by the arm, forcing him in step with us as we take off for the beach. I catch sight of Peeta and Johanna standing in the tree line and I'm filled with a mixture of relief and anger. Why didn't Peeta come to help me? Why did no one come after us? Even now he hangs back, his hands raised, palms toward us, lips moving but no words reaching us. Why?

The wall is so transparent, Finnick and I run smack into it and bounce back onto the jungle floor. I'm lucky. My shoulder took the worst of the impact, whereas Finnick hit face-first and his nose is now gushing blood. Beetee, who didn't hit the wall because he was trailing behind Finnick and me, raises a hand and matches it against Peeta's, his face draining of what little color it retained. And then I understand. This is why Peeta and Johanna have not come to our aid. An invisible barrier blocks the area in front of us. It's not a force field. You can touch the hard, smooth surface all you like, as Beetee hopelessly does. But Peeta's knife and Johanna's ax can't make a dent in it. I know, without checking more than a few feet to one side, that it encloses the entire four-to-five-o'clock wedge. That we will be trapped like rats until the hour passes.

Peeta moves his hand from Beetee's to press it close to me on the surface, and I put my own up to meet it, as if I can feel him through the wall. I see his lips moving but I can't hear him, can't hear anything outside our wedge. I try to make out what he's saying, but I can't focus, so I just stare at his face, doing my best to hang on to my sanity.

Then the birds begin to arrive. One by one. Perching in the surrounding branches. And a carefully orchestrated chorus of horror begins to spill out of their mouths. Finnick gives up at once, hunching on the ground, clenching his hands over his ears as if he's trying to crush his skull. Beetee paces wildly, back and forth, a violet flicker of color in the green foliage as he covers the same ten-yard space over and over, hands over his ears, muttering nonsense under his breath, eyes tightly closed. I try to fight for a while, unlike them. Emptying my entire quiver of arrows into the hated birds. But every time one drops dead, another quickly takes its place. And finally I give up and curl up beside Finnick, trying to block out the excruciating sounds of Prim, Gale, my mother, Madge, Rory, Vick, even Posy, helpless little Posy…

I know it's stopped when I feel Peeta's hands on me, feel myself lifted from the ground and out of the jungle. But I stay with eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently. It takes a long time before I begin to relax the iron grip on my body. And when I do, the trembling begins.

"It's all right, Katniss," he whispers.

"You didn't hear them," I answer.

"I heard Prim. Right at the beginning. But it wasn't her," he says. "It was a jabberjay."

"It was her. Somewhere. The jabberjay just recorded it," I say.

"No, that's what they want you to think. The same way I wondered if Glimmer's eyes were in that mutt last year. But those weren't Glimmer's eyes. And that wasn't Prim's voice. Or if it was, they took it from an interview or something and distorted the sound. Made it say whatever she was saying," he says.

"No, they were torturing her," I answer. "She's probably dead."

"Katniss, Prim isn't dead. How could they kill Prim? We're almost down to the final eight of us. And what happens then?" Peeta says.

"Seven more of us die," I say hopelessly.

"No, back home. What happens when they reach the final eight tributes in the Games?" He lifts my chin so I have to look at him. Forces me to make eye contact. "What happens? At the final eight?"

I know he's trying to help me, so I make myself think. "At the final eight?" I repeat. "They interview your family and friends back home."

"That's right," says Peeta. "They interview your family and friends. And can they do that if they've killed them all?"

"No?" I ask, still unsure.

"No. That's how we know Prim's alive. She'll be the first one they interview, won't she?" he asks.

I want to believe him. Badly. It's just…those voices…

"First Prim. Then your mother. Your cousin, Gale. Madge," he continues. "It was a trick, Katniss. A horrible one. But we're the only ones who can be hurt by it. We're the ones in the Games. Not them."

"You really believe that?" I say.

"I really do," says Peeta. I waver, thinking of how Peeta can make anyone believe anything. I look over at Finnick for confirmation, see he's fixated on Peeta, his words.

"Do you believe it, Finnick?" I ask.

"It could be true. I don't know," he says. "Could they do that, Beetee…Beetee?" He looks around. "Beetee?"

He's nowhere to be seen. "Where's he got off to now?" says Johanna.

Still in Peeta's protective embrace, I peer over and spy Beetee at the edge of the jungle, sitting with his back against a tree, his knees brought up to his chest, his arms around them. His eyes are dull, unfocused. What does he see in the sand as he stares at it so intently? Is he reliving those screams, or taking heed to Peeta's consolation? Finnick calls his name again, and his eyes train wearily on Finnick's face. He suddenly looks much, much older.

"Could they do that, Beetee?" asks Finnick. "Take someone's regular voice and make it…"

Beetee closes his eyes, still staying in the shade of his tree, as if afraid of what he'll have to face in the light of day. "They could," he finally answers, "with great ease, actually. Our…the children of District Three, they learn something similar in school. Yes, the Capitol could have easily…done what they did. And they did. I know they did." He shudders.

I want to ask how he knows for certain, but I'll probably be rewarded with a long, technical explanation that I will hardly understand. Besides, Johanna's speaking now. "Of course Peeta's right. The whole country adores Katniss's little sister. If they really killed her like this, they'd probably have an uprising on their hands," she says flatly. "Don't want that, do they?" She throws back her head and shouts, "Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn't want anything like that!"

My mouth drops open in shock. No one, ever, says anything like this in the Games. Absolutely, they've cut away from Johanna, are editing her out. But I have heard her and can never think about her again in the same way. She'll never win any awards from kindness, but she certainly is gutsy. Or crazy. She picks up some shells and heads toward the jungle. "I'm getting water," she says.

I can't help catching her hand as she passes me. "Don't go in there. The birds—" I remember the birds must be gone, but I still don't want anyone in there. Not even her.

"They can't hurt me. I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love," Johanna says, and she frees her hand with an impatient shake. Determinedly, she marches into the jungle, and as she passes Beetee, he gives another violent shudder. I stare at him as he takes out his wire and begins to fiddle with it, wondering what could be going through is mind.

I revert my attention to Johanna, who has returned with a shell of water and is holding it out for me. I take it with a silent nod of thanks, knowing how much she would despise the pity in my voice. Finnick. Beetee. And now Johanna. It hits me suddenly how little I actually know my allies. The feeling is unnerving; as Johanna reenters the jungle and Finnick takes to the water, I press myself against Peeta's chest for comfort.

"Who did they use against Finnick?" he asks.

"Somebody named Annie," I say.

"Must be Annie Cresta," he says.

"Who?" I ask.

"Annie Cresta. She was the girl Mags volunteered for. She won about five years ago," says Peeta.

That would have been the summer after my father died, when I first started feeding my family, when my entire being was occupied with battling starvation. "I don't remember those Games much," I say. "Was that the earthquake year?"

"Yeah. Annie's the one who went mad when her district partner got beheaded. Ran off by herself and hid. But an earthquake broke a dam and most of the arena got flooded. She won because she was the best swimmer," says Peeta.

"Did she get better after?" I ask. "I mean, her mind?"

"I don't know. I don't remember ever seeing her at the Games again. Btu she didn't look too stable during the reaping this year," says Peeta.

_So that's who Finnick loves,_ I think. _Not his string of fancy lovers in the Capitol. But a poor, mad girl back home._

I rest my head against Peeta's shoulder. His broad hand soon begins to caress my hair. In a low voice, he asks, "And…Beetee?"

"What about him?" I cast my gaze in his direction and see him by that same tree, hunched over in the sand, sketching in the dirt with long, deft fingers. Blocking out the world around him, consumed in his own mind for comfort, for normalcy. I'm reminded uncannily of my mother, and I catch a shiver.

"Who'd they use against him?" says Peeta, returning me to reality. His voice is still quiet, as if he's afraid Beetee will overhear.

"He didn't say any names," I answer. "A woman. And…a child. A little boy." In my head, I hear the anguished cry the jabberjays simulated, see the way it made Beetee panic so and take off wildly without an iota of rationality or reason, which, as far as I know, is unlike him. Peeta seems intrigued.

"Could it be his?" he asks.

"Could what be his?"

"The child. The little boy. Could he be Beetee's?" Peeta elaborates. "You know, his child? His son?"

I glance toward Beetee again. It's entirely possible that he has a four- or five-year-old son, but the child's mother would have to be half his age. For some reason, I doubt this very much. Peeta must see this and says, "Just a theory. Maybe he has a grandson or something."

While more plausible, I still don't think this is true. "I don't know," I say slowly. "He's still a victor, Peeta. If he had children…wouldn't we know?"

"Theoretically, yes," says a quiet voice.

Maybe it's just the aftereffects from the jabberjays, but I jump, startled.

"But secret-keeping happens to be a talent of mine," Beetee continues, eyeing Peeta and me with wary eyes. "I've no patience for gossip. If you want to know, ask. Chances are I'll answer."

Peeta does ask, his voice gentle. "All right, then. Who did you hear in the jungle, Beetee?"

I beat him to it. "The woman was Wiress," I say as it comes to me.

Beetee's lips twist in a small, ironic smile. "Smart girl."

"And…" I almost don't want to ask, remembering his horrified face at that little boy's voice. But Peeta didn't hear the voice or see Beetee's face and can ask guiltlessly, which he does. "And the child?"

Even from our distance, a span of about fifteen yards, I can see him wince. He looks back at his wire and runs it through his fingers. "He's my son," he murmurs after a moment.

I'm still confused, but it seems cruel to question further. "You know it was a trick," Peeta tells him, his voice soothing. "It's okay. _He's_ okay."

"No, he's not."

Peeta and I stare—him with perplexity, me with dread. "You…you said it…it was a trick," I stammer, terrified. Was Beetee lying?

"I know. It was." He continues to play with his wire. "That doesn't mean he's okay, though."

"Then what do you—?"

"My son isn't okay because he's dead," Beetee says as angrily as I've ever heard him speak. "And I'm weak enough to be tormented by the simulated voices of two dead people, both of whom I helped kill." When he looks up and sees Peeta and me staring in shock, he blinks and returns to himself. "I'm sorry," he says in his normal, quiet voice. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's all right," Peeta assures him.

"Perhaps not as all right as it is unchangeable, but say what you wish…" Beetee trails off, still muttering to his wire.

Suddenly, I'm struck by curiosity. I have to be very careful how I word this. "There was a…a decrease in production in Three recently," I say slowly. Beetee nods, and by the look in his eyes, I think he knows what I mean. "If you were to have…also experienced delays and added to that decrease…would…would your son have contributed to that at all?"

Beetee eyes me thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he answers.

Something else occurs to me. "And…Wiress…"

"She was his mother," Peeta infers. "Right?"

This earns us a small smile. "I assume you two can figure that bit out yourselves," says Beetee with a sad sort of chuckle.

And it hits me. Finnick has Johanna—whether as friends or more, I don't know. I have Peeta. But Beetee…he has no one. He's completely alone. And if what he said earlier is true, he blames himself for that. As he turns back to his wire, his features glazing over again, I make to go to him, to comfort him, but Peeta restrains me. "No," he murmurs in my ear. "Give him space."

"But…"

"He needs time," says Peeta softly. "Time to grieve. Give him that, Katniss. Don't make things worse."

Only when hearing it from Peeta do I see what's happened today through Beetee's eyes. The death of Wiress, his friend and—presumably—his lover, which he feels he caused by sending her to clean the wire at the Cornucopia. Listening to her screams, to his son's screams, and remembering the latter's death as well, which the Capitol—again, presumably—caused because of something he did. And, while looking at Peeta and me, fully realizing that he is in fact completely and totally alone…

It makes me feel for him in a way I never thought I would. But even so, I take heed to Peeta's advice and stay back, giving Beetee his space. As if hearing my thoughts, Peeta murmurs, "When he needs to talk about it, he will."

I nod reluctantly. "All right."

Prepared to retrieve my arrows from the hateful jungle, I reluctantly stand and start in that direction. As I pass Beetee, I discover that, to my relief, his eyes are dry. But when I continue into the jungle I swear I hear a muffled sob.

* * *

**So…not a happy ending. If you want to know more about who Beetee heard in the jungle, ask, but be wary—it heeds spoilers to other fics!**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


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